Uncertain
by tastewithouttalent
Summary: "By the time the team arrives at Makishima's house, Fukutomi is a little worried he's going to be sick." Meeting for casual socializing turns into something more than casual for Fukutomi and Kinjou.


A/N: Heavily inspired by this fanart: kmkmi DOT tumblr DOT com SLASH post SLASH 88437627821 SLASH cant-get-enough-captains

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><p>By the time the team arrives at Makishima's house, Fukutomi is a little worried he's going to be sick.<p>

He's had the entire drive over to calm down, to soothe himself into steadiness and force down the butterflies in his stomach. There's really nothing to be nervous about, he tells himself as the distance to their destination collapses in on itself with every second. All they're doing is getting both teams together for a friendly get-together over a race video. He shouldn't expect anything to happen, can't reasonably have any hope for more than a polite nod from Kinjou, maybe a sideways smile at most. This was Toudou's idea in the first place, after all, and Manami's enthusiasm drew the rest of them into it; Fukutomi has very carefully held himself distant, barely letting the idea even take hold in his mind until it was a certainty to save himself from disappointment. He's done a good job of staying calm, kept his heartrate level and his face composed every time the subject came up for the past week, but now they're driving through the unfamiliar streets that will deposit them in front of their former rivals, in front of Kinjou, and Fukutomi isn't sure he can keep his composure anymore.

By the time they get out of the car Fukutomi's shaking, his whole body stiff and trembling with every beat of his heart until he thinks he might collapse into his component parts before they even make it up to the front door. Toudou takes the lead, the rest of the team falls in behind him while Fukutomi tries to avoid looking overeager, and so it is that he's in the very back, bringing up the rear as a silent bracket to the overloud chatter that precedes him. He's still struggling to breathe, trying to determine if he's unusually flushed or not, when he crosses over the threshold of Makishima's house and comes face-to-face with Kinjou himself.

Everything goes out of his head at once. Kinjou is looking right at him, the jade-green of his eyes clear behind his glasses and Fukutomi had forgotten that he wore glasses, forgotten how the weight of the frames aged his face up a handful of years.

"Fukutomi," he says, and Fukutomi realizes he's stopped moving, is standing frozen in the doorway as if petrified by the unexpected sight of the other.

"Ah." He shuffles forward, movements awkward with awareness of how close Kinjou is, how easy it would be to reach out and touch him and how utterly impossible such a movement would be. "Kinjou." He's not even looking at the other when he speaks and his voices still skids out like tires on wet asphalt, like he's losing traction on Kinjou's name before he remembers how it should sound. Fukutomi knows without looking that Kinjou must be smiling, now, gentle amusement at his expense, but he can't make himself look up any more than he can control the heat burning itself across his cheekbones.

"It's good to see you," is all Kinjou says, his voice so level Fukutomi isn't sure if he's being sincere or deadpan. "The rest of the team is back this way."

Fukutomi doesn't move until Kinjou has shut the door and started to move down the hallway to lead him back to the room in question. At least with Kinjou's back to him there is no one to see how awkward his movements are, as if he's forgotten how his limbs work or how the disparate pieces of walking fit together into a cohesive whole.

"I hope the travel wasn't too bad," Kinjou says. The low resonance of his voice is startling in the forming quiet, as it is always startling, and for a moment Fukutomi can't even parse the sentence as a question or a statement or an opening to conversation. He stalls too long, feels the pace of his footsteps crowding out the appropriateness of his response, and by the time he's come up with the meaningless, "No, it was perfectly acceptable," they're at the doorway, his voice is too loud in the hallway and Kinjou has to pause to let him finish.

"Good," is all he says, but there's laughter at the corner of his mouth, and Fukutomi can feel himself flushing hotter in the moment before Kinjou extends a hand to gesture him into the darkened room first.

The darkness is a relief - it grants the cover of shadow to Fukutomi's overheated skin, lets him duck his head and maneuver towards a clear space at the back of the room. His movements are clumsy, too tight-wound to be anything but a liability to his attempts at grace, but it's a short distance and even Arakita doesn't do more than hiss a protest as Fukutomi bumps past the rest of the group. Then he's clear, settling in with his back to the wall and a few feet of space in front of the nearest shoulders, and he takes the first deep breath he's had since the car started. The worst is over now - he's made it inside, has critically fumbled his minimal conversation with Kinjou, but at least it's past, the error is over and complete.

He's still relishing the relief of a deep breath, the calming effect of oxygen filling his lungs, when there is movement at his side, motion in his periphery. "Excuse me," a voice says, polite apology for interrupting a line of view, and Fukutomi can _feel_ the tension seize up his throat and block off his barely-recovered ability to breathe as Kinjou fits himself smoothly in the space next to him.

There is no possible way Fukutomi can feel Kinjou's body heat at this distance. Rationally he knows this, is certain without even checking. But in practice he has to keep looking, glancing to gauge the space between them to assure himself that the prickling heat over his arm and fingertips is just his own rampant adrenaline and not some radiant glow off Kinjou's smooth skin. The murmur of half-formed conversation is echoing in his ears, coming at an impossible distance even before the race video starts playing to offer the distraction of commentary and motion. Fukutomi isn't blinking; he can feel his heart pounding in his chest, the burn of self-consciousness creeping up his arm and locking his whole body into awkward discomfort. He can't remember what normal feels like, isn't sure how to unlock the tension in his joints, and he's so caught in the thrum of his own blood in his veins he doesn't realize, at first, when fingertips brush his wrist.

He doesn't react, doesn't even turn his head to glance, until there's another touch, longer and warmer, and then he jumps, looks sideways too fast to think about it, and Kinjou is staring at him. There's no expression on his face, or at least none that Fukutomi can make out in the dim light of the television, but Kinjou is _definitely_ watching him and not the screen, is making no attempt to even look away and pretend he wasn't staring. His fingers are burning hot, they're wrapping in against Fukutomi's wrist as if he's feeling out the shape of the blond's pulse under his skin, and Fukutomi can't convince himself to look away and can't convince himself this is real. He's not even sure what Kinjou is _doing_, exactly, other than that the other's fingers are pressing against his skin and he can think of no reasonable explanation for this particular action other than the obvious, that Kinjou _wants_ to be touching him. But that doesn't make sense either, Fukutomi can't trust that conclusion coming from the bias of his own mind, and Kinjou's fingers are sliding farther up his arm, Kinjou's thumb is pressing in against the warm inside curve of his elbow.

If Fukutomi wasn't paying attention to the video before, he's not even sure it's still playing, now. His pulse is pounding drumbeat-loud in his head, his every breath is burning in his lungs, and Kinjou is getting closer, leaning in over the distance so he can slide his fingers up farther. Fukutomi's arm is locked out against the floor, his elbow frozen in place as if he will never move it again; he feels like he ought to shift, to tip in himself or maybe reach out to reciprocate the contact, but any movement feels like it could read as refusal, as accidental rejection, and Fukutomi's pounding heart is certain that the least action could break whatever insane spell has fallen over him.

Then Kinjou's fingertips brush the loose edge of his shirtsleeve, and all the air leaves his lungs so fast Fukutomi can hear the huff over the sound of the video. It sounds like a gunshot to him, he flinches in anticipation of everyone turning around - but there's no reaction, just Toudou reaching over Makishima for a drink and Naruko laughing too loud at something on the other side of the room, and when Fukutomi looks back Kinjou is smiling at him.

The glow from the screen is faint, just enough to sparkle in Kinjou's eyes while leaving them colorless in the dark, but his teeth are very white, drawing out the shape of his lips in negative. Fukutomi can feel his cheeks heating, his gaze sticking at Kinjou's mouth until his glance becomes a stare, and he can't look away. His arm isn't locked out anymore, he's leaning in closer over the support of his wrist and he can feel his whole shoulder trembling, vibration shivering down his elbow and undermining the steady strength of his spine.

Kinjou moves slowly, smoothly like he's trying to keep Fukutomi from startling away. When he touches the edge of his glasses the glint of light finally drags Fukutomi's eyes up, lets him track the sweep of the lenses as Kinjou slides them up off his nose and onto the top of his head. Fukutomi is still staring at the frames, feeling his eyebrows pull tight in the confusion of total incomprehension, when fingertips brush the side of his neck and slide up into his hair. _That_ grabs his attention entirely, drags his gaze back to the fringe of eyelashes around green eyes and the realization that Kinjou is _incredibly_ close, close enough for Fukutomi to _see_ the detail of his lashes and close enough that he can't see the other's mouth for how near they are.

It's a greater distance than it should be. Fukutomi can't move except to shake, trembling with anticipation until he can barely sit upright; it's a good thing he's sitting down, he's certain his legs won't take his weight. But Kinjou is holding him still, there's a curve of strong fingers warm against the back of Fukutomi's neck and a thumb pressed against the bottom edge of his jaw, and the feathery touch at his arm has slid down, tightened into a firm hold against his elbow.

Fukutomi's heart is going so fast that when Kinjou's mouth brushes his there's no instant relief, no shudder of satisfaction at the culmination of hope. His thoughts are skidding on ahead, panicking about what to do and should he move and what if someone turns around and _sees_ them. His fright catches sharp and whining in his throat, turns his inhale into a tiny sound against Kinjou's mouth. The fingers on his arm draw tight, squeeze heat and comfort into his skin, and it's then that the relief comes, that the rising panic of Fukutomi's heartrate finally collapses under the heat in his veins. The electricity of too much self-awareness fizzles into instinct, pleasure coming up from every point of contact, and when Fukutomi does finally move it's to tip his head sideways, to press his lips closer to Kinjou's. It's an awkward angle, the motion stiff and unfamiliar, but the fingers at his arm go gentle like he's passed a test, the hand at his neck draws him in closer, and he forgets about the shadowed shoulders a few feet in front of them.

Kinjou is good at leading, it turns out. The fingers at Fukutomi's neck are guiding him to tilt his head, sliding encouragement when Fukutomi thinks to let his mouth relax into softness. Fukutomi's skin is warm, flushed into a glow instead of a burn, and the fingers at his arm are sliding away, tracing out against his waist with the unhurried motion of appreciation. He can feel the pressure gliding over his skin, friction and heat twisting together, and then Kinjou's fingers close at the bottom edge of his shirt, tug the fabric up so Fukutomi's skin tingles in anticipation. Their lips part for a moment, Fukutomi tries to even out his breathing into quiet although he lacks the nerve to glance and see if anyone has seen them. His hands are awkward, clumsy imitation of Kinjou's elegant movement, but Kinjou hums faint approval as Fukutomi twists his shirt up over the flat lines of his stomach, his teeth flash in a momentary smile as the blond gets his fingers pressing against the taunt-thrumming heat of tanned skin. Fukutomi doesn't realize his mouth is open until Kinjou pulls him back in and there's the slick damp of tongue against his lips, and by then he's too hazy with pleased warmth to worry about whether Kinjou thought he was offering a blatant invitation, whether such would even be overstepping at this point. Kinjou's fingers are sliding over the curve of his spine, dragging him in closer until their hips bump together and they can't get any nearer without Fukutomi actually climbing into Kinjou's lap. The idea flashes through Fukutomi's head, pauses on more sincerity than he ever intended it to, but his blush is lost to the darkness and his attention is condensing into his fingertips, and when Kinjou opens _his_ mouth wider Fukutomi doesn't think about the implications before he takes the offer and tastes the inside of Kinjou's mouth, traces out the shape of the other's lips and the heat of his tongue with his own.

It's Kinjou who keeps them upright, who pushes back against Fukutomi's weight to keep them from toppling over onto the floor entirely. Fukutomi's hand is heavy against Kinjou's skin, pushing up against the strength of his chest like he's looking for something to grab onto, and Kinjou's running his fingers over Fukutomi in return, crisscrossing lines of heat over the blond's back until it's all just warmth and pleasure and comfort. Fukutomi has no idea if anyone sees them - they _must_, there's no way no one glanced back at them during the entire length of the video - but by the time Kinjou pulls away and disentangles his hands no one's watching, there's nothing to tell what they were doing except the heat burning like a sunburn across Fukutomi's face. In the first burst of sound and conversation as the lights come up Fukutomi stays where he is, waits for his vision to refocus and for reality to shape itself back around the hazy bubble of disbelief he's been in. Kinjou is on his feet already, his glasses back in place and his features perfectly composed, but when Fukutomi glances up there are green eyes on him, a smile pulling at the corner of lips still faintly damp from the heat of his own mouth.

"Fukutomi," Kinjou purrs. He offers a hand, the motion clear so Fukutomi doesn't have to think through reaching up to take it, and then he's being pulled to his feet as smoothly as if he's borrowing Kinjou's quiet confidence via the touch of his hand. The space between them feels electrified again, crackling with warmth and potential, and Kinjou keeps his hand for a moment, lets his fingertips rest on the inside of Fukutomi's wrist while the quirk of his lips breaks into a true smile. Fukutomi has to take a moment to recollect his own expression before he can return the expression - even then it feels weird, stiff and forced - but Kinjou's smile doesn't fade, his touch doesn't pull away, and after a breath Fukutomi can feel himself start to grin more naturally, tense pleasure smoothing over into amusement. His laughter comes easier still, bubbling up his throat without any thought at all, and by the time the rest of the room starts to turn to stare Fukutomi doesn't care who's watching him, anymore.


End file.
